


The Gales Of November

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-27
Updated: 1999-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-11 01:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	The Gales Of November

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Gales Of November
    
    
     **Contains m/f sex**
    Caveats, TYKs, etc.:
     
    1)  This story is rated R -- 'nuff said
    
    2)  If you don't like the idea of Thatcher and Fraser 
    together -- abandon ship now!
    
    3)  This story takes place this coming October.
    
    4)  The characters herein (with the obvious exceptions) are
    not mine, and no copyright infringement of any sort is 
    intended.  Please don't sue me.
    
    5)  Having lived on the east coast my entire life, my knowledge
    of the Great Lakes falls into the category of "A little knowledge is
    a dangerous thing."  If any of the facts about the lakes, boats, or anything
    else of this genre is off, therefore, please just 
    work with me and suspend your disbelief.
    
    6)  Mild "We Are the Eggmen" and "All the Queen's Horses" 
    spoilers.
    
    7)  My gratitude goes out to my sister, Armida, for helping me
    work out some of the details of this story and for, as always
    (in her infinite patience), acting as my sounding board and 
    eternally-supportive friend.
    
    8)  Comments, as always, welcomed at 
    GILBERTK@MTC.MID.TEC.SC.US
    
    ***************************************************************** 
    
    
    
    # The Gales of November
    
    
     by Katherine Gilbert
    
       There was no question about it; Henri Clouthier had it in for
    her.  The call that morning had proven it.
       "But Meg," he had argued over the phone, "we need a good,
    experienced officer to help out on this project.  Besides, you've worked
    with these people before."
       "Yes, in *Toronto*," Inspector Margaret Thatcher had argued 
    back to him, "but I'm in Chicago now -- at the consulate.  Surely, there's
    someone who can handle this better, who is more 
    appropriately posted?"
    
       "We're sending out some of our people from Alberta," Clouthier continued,
    "but the S.O.S. people trust you.  They'd like to see your input on this."
    
       "Let me get this straight, sir," Thatcher tried to keep her cool.
    "You want me to go out on Lake Superior in the middle of October?"  She
    paused before saying, "First, it's the height of stupidity.  Second,
    we have no access to boats to get there.  Third . . . doesn't S.O.S.
    stand for Save Ontario's Shipwrecks?  What are they doing in Lake Superior?"
    
       "They're branching out.  Look," Clouthier replied, "these salvagers
    are severely damaging the wreck sites in the Canadian parts of 
    Superior. You're fairly close.  You're experienced. . . You're going."
    He paused.  "You can take Constable Fraser along with you if you'd like,"
    he added finally.
    
       Thatcher winced.  "I'll never live down that fake dinner invitation,"
    she had thought.
    
    **********************************************************************
    
       Margaret sighed.  Confronting Fraser to ask him hadn't been easy.
    She hadn't wanted him to take the invitation the wrong way, but she had
    known that she was going to need some help on this one, and 
    she didn't even want to think about the possibility of being stuck on
    a boat, possibly for several days, with Constable Turnbull, so she had
    gone to Fraser's office.
    
       "Inspector!" he had said, slightly startled when she knocked on his
    office door.
    
       "Constable, I have just received orders from Ottawa.  I'm to rent
    a boat and go to the Canadian side of Lake Superior to help capture some
    wreck salvagers who are damaging dive sites.  Apparently, the head office
    believes that some of our fellow officers are involved, and, in trying
    to keep this story quiet, they are using only the RCMP to investigate,
    with the help of S.O.S."
    
       "Aren't they only in Lake Ontario, sir?" Fraser had interrupted her
    but became silent quickly when he caught her warning look.
    
       Thatcher began pacing and staring at the floor.  "The reason I am
    telling you this," she pressed on, "is because . . ." Thatcher stopped
    walking and looked at Fraser.  "Constable, what I have been asked to
    do could be dangerous at this time of year.  I cannot . . . I will not
    order you to accompany me, but I am asking for your
    assistance."
    
       Fraser had met her eyes with understanding.  "When do we leave, sir?"
    he had asked.
     
    ****************************************************************** 
    
       The next step that day had been to acquire a boat.  They had 
    soon found that renting a boat to go out on Lake Superior to an 
    undisclosed location for an unspecified amount of time, especially as
    winter was pressing in on the Great Lakes, was not an easy task. Clouthier
    had specified that they could not involve the Coast Guard in this effort,
    since they might wish to become involved.  Fraser's best inspiration,
    after the rentals had failed, therefore, was to ask Ray.  Thatcher groaned
    and put her head in her hands thinking about it.
    
       "Let me see if I've got this straight," Ray had said, when they had
    interrupted him, as he was trying to avoid working.  "You need a boat
    to go out on the lake in the middle of winter.  You won't tell me where
    you're going or when you're coming back."  Thatcher and Fraser nodded
    their heads.  "Pleasure trip?" Ray asked with a 
    slightly lascivious grin.
    
       Thatcher had groaned quietly and rolled her eyes.  "Detective," she
    had said coldly, "I have official orders I need to carry out." Ray seemed
    about to interrupt.  "I cannot explain the details or answer any specific
    questions about this trip.  Now, as a long-time resident of this city,
    do you know of any way to gain access to a boat? If not, we'll be on
    our way."
       When Ray had still seemed disinclined to answer, Fraser had 
    taken him aside to talk to him privately, although they had still been
    within Thatcher's earshot.
    
       "So, what's with you and the dragon lady going out on a cruise?" Ray
    had asked.
       Thatcher began to grind her teeth.
       "Ray, please, her name is Inspector Thatcher," Fraser had 
    responded, "and it is not a cruise.  There is official business we must
    attend to."
    
       "`Official business,' right," Ray continued.  "C'mon, Benny -- you
    going to do a little necking with your lady officer?"
       Fraser looked confused.  "I don't see how our necks will be 
    particularly involved," he answered.
    
       Thatcher was glad she wasn't wearing her red serge; she hated matching
    the color of her clothes.
    
       Ray was laughing slightly.  "Alright, Ben.  I've got this cousin who
    got a yacht in one of those government auctions where they 
    buy things the used to belong to drug dealers.  I'll give him a call."
    
    ********************************************************************
    
       Quite a few hours later, after giving some man, who stared at her
    in an even less appealing manner than Detective Vecchio, much 
    more money than the boat was probably worth to rent and listening to
    Fraser give Diefenbaker a long speech about how to behave with the Vecchios
    ("Why would you lecture a deaf wolf?" she had thought), Thatcher had
    been on her way, with Fraser accompanying.  The yacht was mid-sized,
    with a couple of bedrooms and a small kitchen.  
    Fortunately, it had been mostly enclosed, so the cold hadn't seemed particularly
    bad.  They were out a fair way onto Lake Superior when night fell, and
    they had decided to stop rather than risk going on and possibly hitting
    something.  "I'm sure there will be clear
    weather tomorrow to help us reach our destination," Fraser had said,
    before they both retired to their quarters.  Meg hadn't been so sure;
    the temperature seemed to be dropping fast.
    
    **********************************************************************
    
       Meg sighed and sat down on her bed.  She had been pacing 
    about in her bedroom on the yacht, pondering the events which 
    had brought her here.  She was wearing her long silken nightgown, but
    she had her robe on over it.  She couldn't believe she was here, with
    Fraser just a few feet away in his room.  He was so close; 
    they were alone; no one would know if . . .
    
       "Stop it, Meg," she said aloud to herself.  "You can't very well just
    go offer yourself to him.  You're on duty here -- both of you. Act like
    a professional."  She pulled her robe around her more 
    tightly; she felt the need to keep it on, just in case she should have
    to go into the hall, and he saw her.   She sat with her arms folded and
    began to take in her surroundings for the first time; she had only noticed
    that they were ugly before. Everything seemed to be done in a pink the
    shade of Pepto Bismol. She shook her head.  It was a room it was hard
    not to clash with.
    
       "Meg, what on earth are you doing here?" she heard from behind her.
    She spun around.
       "God, mother.  Would you stop doing that?" she asked.
    
       "Just trying to keep you on your toes," Mrs. Thatcher responded. 
       "Mother," Thatcher replied, annoyed, "you've been `keeping me on my
    toes' for 35 years, . . . and five of those were after you were dead."
    
       "It hardly matters," her mother's ghost responded.  "You hardly ever
    listen to me, anyway, dear.  If you did, you would have married that
    nice Reagan boy instead of going into the police."
       Meg sighed.  "Mother, Robert was a heroin dealer."
    
       "But he was such a nice boy," her mother replied.  "He could have
    provided such nice things for you."
       "Drug dealers frequently can, mother," Thatcher responded.
       "Oh, those were just rumors, dear," her mother pressed on.
    
       "Five arrests and four convictions were rumors, mother?" Thatcher
    insisted.
    
       "Police persecution!" her mother cried.  "Why did you want to join
    them anyway?"
       "I wonder," Thatcher muttered.
    
       Mrs. Thatcher sighed, looking slightly vexed.  "You really should
    try to be more like your sister Elizabeth, Margaret.  Now there's a girl
    who knows how to live properly."
    
       "Mother," Thatcher said, trying to keep her patience, "four rugrats,
    a dimwitted husband, and a bunch of small dogs running at my heels isn't
    the life I want.  Besides, her entire house seems to have plastic coverings
    on it.  She won't even let me sit down, when I'm there." 
       "She's probably just afraid you'd make a mess," her mother 
    responded.
    
       Meg closed her eyes and counted to twenty.  "If I scream," she thought,
    "Fraser will come running, and he'll think I've lost my mind, when I
    seem to be sitting here talking to myself."   
    
       "Don't close your eyes on me, little girl," her mother continued on,
    as Thatcher reluctantly opened them and looked at her.  "Now, since you've
    missed your best chance, why not take that nice young man
    across the hall?  He seems to like you."
    
       "Mother," Thatcher tried to say in measured tones, "I'm his superior
    officer.  I *cannot* get personal with him."
       "I'm not telling you to get personal," her mother responded.
    "I'm telling you to marry him!"
    
       Thatcher got up, exasperated, took off her robe, and turned out the
    light.  "I'm going to bed now, mother," she said, climbing into the badly-colored
    bed.  "You can keep talking, but I'm not going to be listening."
       "No sense of respect," her mother's ghost sighed, before she 
    disappeared.
    
       Margaret lay in bed, shaking her head.  "At least she got me into
    bed," she thought, "but sleep is unlikely."  After all, Fraser was *so*
    close.
    
    **********************************************************************
    
       Across the hall, Benton was pacing.  He knew that Thatcher had asked
    him along, because he was reliable.  He knew, or he told
    himself, that he needed to stay professional, but her sheer proximity
    was driving him crazy.  To have her just across the hall, to feel her
    so close -- the tension of it was working on him.
       "Why don't you go see her, son?  Her room's got to be better 
    decorated than yours."
    
       Fraser stopped pacing.  His father had appeared behind him again.
    "Dad, do you think you could manage to appear in front of me for once?"
    he asked.
    
       "Takes all the fun out of it," his father's ghost responded.  "Now,
    why would anyone decorate a room in zebra stripes?"
       "Maybe he needed it for camouflage," Fraser answered.
    
       Fraser, Sr. looked at the walls and bedspread of the room and then
    back to his son.  "Do they take zebras on yachts much these days?" he
    asked him.
    
       Fraser sighed and leaned against an unfortunately-colored wall with
    his arms crossed.
    
       "C'mon, son," his father's ghost encouraged, "go see her.  You know
    she likes you.  You should have heard her on that train when she thought
    you were dead, . . . and Frobisher told me what 
    happened later."
    
       Fraser looked annoyed.  "Those were very different circumstances,
    Dad . . . she . . . we . . . never mind.  Look," he said, when his father
    seemed about to interrupt, "we've had this conversation before.  Anything
    romantic between myself and Inspector Thatcher would be improper. . .Now,
    I'm going to bed," he continued, as he made his way to the tragically-stripped
    resting place, "so I suggest you leave." 
       "No appreciation," Fraser, Sr. muttered, as he disappeared.
    
    ************************************************************************
    
       The next morning, Fraser and Thatcher met on the deck dressed in the
    jeans and sweaters Thatcher had insisted on (uniforms and dresses were
    of little use on the water) and discovered a bright, beautiful day, 
    which helped reveal the lake to them.  A sudden 
    cold snap had iced it over as far as they could see.
       "Oh dear," Fraser murmered.
    
       Thatcher looked at the horizon of ice.  "Well, I suppose they won't
    be doing much salvaging in this," she said.
       "No, I suppose not," Fraser returned.
       They continued to stare out at the ice, until Fraser recited:
           Day after day, day after day;
           We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
           As idle as a painted ship 
           Upon a painted ocean.
    
       Thatcher finally looked at him.  "Coleridge," she said, "`The Rime
    of the Ancient Mariner.'  Does that mean we'll have to stop wedding guests
    to tell them about this in the future?"  She looked away 
    quickly, realizing this was the wrong thing to say, just as Fraser looked
    at her.  "I was thinking more of the beginning of *Frankenstein* myself,"
    she went on to cover up her gaffe, "the novel, not the movie," she specified.
    As she thought about how long the characters in 
    *Frankenstein* had sat trapped in the ice, a thought dawned on her, "I
    think we need to call for help," she said, as she turned to go find the
    ship's radio.
    
    **********************************************************************
    
       Most of the next few hours were spent calling both the other RCMP
    officers involved in the assignment and the U.S. Coast Guard, as they
    had yet to reach Canadian waters, trying not to alert the latter to their
    plans.  Their Canadian companions, however, were just as stuck as they
    were, and the U.S. Coast Guard simply laughed and 
    said, "So, wait a few days.  It'll thaw."
    
       Thatcher decided that they should stay on watch for the rest of the
    daylight hours, in case the temperature should go up enough to cause
    a thaw.  They sat in silence and watched, both of them unable to think
    of polite conversation and knowing that it was an inappropriate time
    for anything deeper.  Their uncomfortable situation, however, wasn't
    made any more pleasant by the fact that Fraser apparently had "The Wreck
    of the Edmund Fitzgerald" stuck in his head and 
    was humming it repeatedly.  He seemed especially stuck on the line "When
    the gales of November blow early," and he kept singing it softly to himself.
    Thatcher's patience wore thin about noon, and she sent him to make them
    both lunch.
     
    **********************************************************************
    
       The ice never broke that day, either literally or figuratively. Except
    for Fraser's incessant humming, all was disturbingly quiet. When night
    fell, Fraser made them both dinner.  To Thatcher's 
    delight, all his cooking proved excellent.  After the meal was over and
    the dishes were cleared, they sat quietly at the small table, which functioned
    as a dining room, for some time.  Finally, Meg 
    spoke.
    
       "Fraser," she said, "I want to apologize for getting you into this.
    You didn't have to come with me. . . I just wanted you to know 
    that I appreciate it."  She stared at her hand on the loud tablecloth,
    as she spoke.
    
       "I don't mind, ma'am," Fraser replied.  "I appreciate you asking me."
    
       Thatcher looked up at him.  "Why?" she asked.
    
       "Because it shows that you appreciate my work and feel that I can
    be of some help," he replied.
    
       "Oh," she said looking back down.  "I just didn't want you to get
    the wrong idea about this . . . assignment."
    
       "Ah, understood," Fraser responded, looking a little saddened. He
    looked down to where their hands lay inches apart on the table. 
       Thatcher looked up enough to follow his gaze and drew back her hand
    slightly, looking up at him.  "Fraser, I . . .," she began, then paused.
    "Perhaps we should speak freely," she said.
    
       "Ah . . . It would be a break from the rest of the day," Fraser said
    but, looking up at her, saw the slightly hurt look in her eyes. "I'm
    sorry, sir.  That wasn't meant to sound like . . . Ma'am, Meg . . . speaking
    freely, today has been rather tense.  That's not your fault -- or mine,
    but . . ." he trailed off.
    
       "I know," she replied.  "I'm sorry, Fraser.  I shouldn't have asked
    you to come; I didn't mean to make this awkward for you.  
    I was hoping that we would be able to handle this situation quickly and
    return to Chicago without having time for so much . . . tension." 
       "I know," Fraser said, looking into her eyes.  "I know that you never
    meant to make me uncomfortable, and you haven't -- not in 
    any sense that's your, or anyone's, fault."  He reached across the table
    and gently touched her hand.   
    
       Thatcher felt the sort of energy she had once before.  She took Fraser's
    hand in hers, as they continued to look at each other.  Then, Meg looked
    away and said, "Fraser, if I continue to hold your hand much longer,
    I'm not sure that I'll be able to continue acting like your superior
    officer."
    
       Fraser's grip tightened slightly, although he was still gently caressing
    her hand, "Meg," he said slowly, "I won't be upset if that happens."
    She looked back up at him.  "We're alone," he continued, "in the middle
    of a frozen lake.  There's no one around to know . . . or to question
    it."
    
       "Fraser," Thatcher responded, "I can't promise more than one night,
    more than the duration of a cold snap.  At most, this could only be a
    frozen second of time."
    
       "I'm willing to risk that," Fraser responded.  When he saw consent
    in her eyes, he stood up from the table slowly and helped draw her up
    to him.  They continued to simply look at each other for a minute, their
    hands still entwined, until Thatcher brought her other hand up and gently
    stroked Fraser's cheek.  Fraser then put his hand on her back and slowly
    drew her closer to him.  As they kissed, very
    delicately at first, they let go of each other's hands and embraced.
    
       Their kiss deepened, still with an almost aching gentleness.  They
    allowed their hands to roam over each other.  Thatcher felt the 
    breadth of Fraser's shoulders and gently traced down his back with one
    hand, while caressing the back of his neck and head with the other. Fraser,
    meanwhile, ran one hand down Thatcher's spine to the small of her back,
    while holding her head with the other, letting her silken hair play against
    his fingers.  When he moved one hand to run it gently down her side,
    he felt her sigh against his lips, and his desire threatened to overwhelm
    him.
    
       Thatcher felt Fraser pulsating against her and was unsure whether
    she could continue to control her passion.  She broke off their kiss
    and, barely managing to find her voice, said, "Maybe we should go somewhere
    other than the kitchen for this?"
    
       Fraser was still holding her tightly; he wasn't sure whether he would
    ever be able to let her go again.  "My bedroom seems to have been decorated
    by a zebra enthusiast," he responded.  "Is yours any better?"
       "No," she said, "but let's go there anyway."
       "Understood," he responded.
    
       They managed to let go of each other long enough to get to her bedroom.
    When Fraser saw the coloration, however, he let out a 
    small "Oh dear," before he looked back at her again.
    
       "I think their decorator was a bit taste-impaired," Thatcher agreed,
    before she and Fraser resumed their embrace and deep kiss.
    
       After a few minutes, Fraser's hands began to pull up Thatcher's sweater
    slightly.  The touch of her skin was incredible, and they quickly took
    off the unnecessary garment and her bra.  They also
    took a moment to remove their shoes and socks, realizing that they would
    become extremely cumbersome soon.
    
       Fraser then worked his way down the side of Thatcher's neck with his
    lips until he had reached her breasts.  He opened his mouth in order
    to take one in and fully taste it, playing with the stiffened nipple
    with his tongue, while his hands caressed her back.  Thatcher groaned,
    as Fraser continued to work his way down her stomach with his tongue,
    before returning to give her other breast the same loving attention.
    By the time he returned up his path on the opposite side of her neck,
    Thatcher was pulling off Fraser's sweater, and, then, still kissing him,
    she pushed him down onto the bed.  Fraser 
    groaned, fortunately in pleasure instead of pain.
       Meg allowed her hands to fully feel Fraser's chest, enjoying
    the sculpture of it.  She began to work her way down his body in
    much the same way he had done with her, wondering, as she went,
    whether he was one of the men who was able to receive much pleasure from
    his own nipples.  When he groaned more loudly as she drew her tongue
    lightly across one, she realized that she had her answer.
    
       Thatcher continued to work her way down Fraser's body, taking off
    his clothes from the waist down, as she went.  When he was finally revealed
    to her, she looked at him in appreciation before taking
    him into her mouth.  Fraser let out another deep groan.
       After a few minutes, Thatcher worked her way slowly back up 
    Fraser's body.  When she was face to face with him again, he took her
    face in his hands and kissed her passionately, rolling them 
    both back over as he did so.
    
       Fraser continued the pattern they had set up, running his hands and
    mouth back down along her body, stopping to glory again in the feel of
    her breasts in his mouth.  He then continued down to remove the rest
    of her clothes and, parting her gently with his tongue,
    allowed himself to taste her depths.  He heard her cry out softly, deeply,
    as he did.
       When he had worked his way back up and returned to face her,
    several minutes later, and had kissed her deeply again, he found
    his voice long enough to say, "Meg, I believe we . . . um . . ."
    
       Thatcher pulled herself into reality long enough to be able to say,
    "my purse, by the bed."  Fraser handed it to her and, in one of the only
    disorganized things he'd ever seen her do, watched 
    her toss out its contents onto the floor, until she found the
    condom.  She stopped for a second before handing it to him and
    said, "Fraser, I hope you don't think that I brought these *for*
    you. . . I try to be prepared, well . . . I didn't bring them . . ."
    
       Fraser nodded.  "Understood, sir." 
       When she had helped him put it on, Fraser brought her up to
    him and kissed her again before laying her back down on the bed.
       He entered her gently and heard her say his first name.  They
    continued to lose themselves in their shared rhythm for what seemed like
    a blissful eternity, continuing to kiss and touch each other. As they
    neared a climax, Benton took Meg's fingers delicately into his mouth
    before allowing their hands to entwine.  When they came, Meg cried out,
    holding the back of Fraser's head tightly and
    pressing her cheek up against his, while Fraser whispered her name, his
    free arm wrapped tightly around her back holding her to him.
    
       When they faced each other once again, they kissed deeply once more
    and then continued to look into each other's eyes, but 
    Thatcher felt a sudden, unbearable sadness at knowing that she
    could not continue to feel this love all the time from Fraser, that tonight
    would be an end.  Fraser immediately picked up on her 
    feelings and whispered, "No!  Don't think about that -- not now.  Stay
    with me completely tonight.  We'll face tomorrow together, 
    when it comes."
       "Understood," Meg replied.
    
    *********************************************************************
    
       They awoke the next day in each other's arms, having repeated
    their pattern twice more in the night ("No wonder every woman he
    sees goes crazy over him," Thatcher had thought, at one point.
    "They pick up on his stamina.").  They held each other gently for a half
    hour past the time they were supposed to be out of bed.
    
       Thatcher finally decided, however, that it could be put off no longer,
    and they arose reluctantly.  They dressed in their separate rooms but
    with the doors open.
    
       When they went upstairs, they could see that the ice had melted. "Oh
    dear," Fraser said sadly.
    
       "I know," Thatcher responded.  "I was hoping that it would have continued
    as well."
    
    *********************************************************************
    
       Several hours later, after having received word that the salvagers
    had been caught earlier that morning, mounties and all, they had been
    told that they were no longer of use and were now close to 
    Chicago again.  When they could start to see the city clearly, 
    Thatcher slowed down and stopped the boat's engines.
       "What is it, sir?" Fraser asked.
    
       "Fraser," Thatcher said sadly, "last night has to stay out here, .
    . . so I thought that we should say goodbye before we reach shore."
    
       "Understood," Fraser said, before gently taking her face in one of
    his hands and kissing her again.  They embraced one final time, sharing
    a final kiss, before they reluctantly pulled themselves
    apart.
    
    **********************************************************************
    
       "I'll see you at the consulate tomorrow," Thatcher said, as they pulled
    the yacht into its proper place.  "I'll take care of returning the keys
    to Detective Vecchio's cousin."
       "No, sir," Fraser responded.  "I'll see to it."  He seemed 
    determined, so she nodded.  He paused before adding, "Sir, do you think
    it's possible that we could become, . . . well, stranded again next year?"
    
       Thatcher smiled warmly.  "We'll see, Constable," she responded. "We'll
    see."
    
    The End
    


End file.
